A neighbor knight pricked on to join
The huntsmen in the wood.

And with him must Lord Julian go,
Tho' with an anger'd mind:
Betroth'd not wedded to his bride,

In vain he sought, 'twixt shame and pride,
Excuse to stay behind.

He bit his lip, he wrung his glove,
He look'd around, he look'd above,

But pretext none could find or frame !
Alas! alas! and well-a-day!

It grieves me sore to think, to say,
That names so seldom meet with Love,
Yet Love wants courage without a

name

Straight from the forest's skirt the trees

O'er-branching, made an aisle,
Where hermit old might pace and chant
As in a minster's pile.

From underneath its leafy screen,

And from the twilight shade,

You pass at once into a green,
A green and lightsome glade.

And there Lord Julian sate on steed;
Behind him, in a round,

Stood knight and squire, and menial train
Against the leash the greyhounds strain;
The horses paw'd the ground.

When up the alley green, Sir Hugh
Spurr'd in upon the sward,

And mute, without a word, did he

Fall in behind his lord.

Lord Julian turn'd his steed half round.--
"What! doth not Alice deign

To accept your loving convoy, knight?
Or doth she fear our woodland sleight,

And joins us on the plain ?"

!

With stifled tones the knight replied,
And look'd askance on either side,—
Nay, let the hunt proceed!—
The Lady's message that I bear,
I guess would scantly please your ear,
And less deserves your heed.

"You sent betimes. Not yet unbarr'd
I found the middle door ;-
Two stirrers only met my eyes,
Fair Alice, and one more.

"I came unlook'd for: and, it seemed,
In an unwelcome hour;

And found the daughter of Du Clos
Within the lattic'd bower.

"But hush! the rest may wait. If lost,

No great loss, I divine;

And idle words will better suit

A fair maid's lips than mine."

"God's wrath! speak out, man," Julian cried,
O'ermaster'd by the sudden smart ;-
And feigning wrath, sharp, blunt, and rude,
The knight his subtle shift pursued.-
"Scowl not at me; command my skill,

To lure your hawk back, if you will,
But not a woman's heart.

"Go! (said she) tell him,-slow is sure;

Fair speed his shafts to-day!

I follow here a stronger lure,

And chase a gentler prey.'

"The game, pardie, was full in sight, That then did, if I saw aright,

The fair dame's eyes engage;

For turning, as I took my ways,
I saw them fix'd with steadfast gaze
Full on her wanton page."

The last word of the traitor knight
It had but entered Julian's ear,-
From two o'erarching oaks between,
With glist ning helm-like cap is seen,
Borne on in giddy cheer,

A youth, that ill his steed can guide ;
Yet with reverted face doth ride,

As answering to a voice,

That seems at once to laugh and chide-
"Not mine, dear mistress," still he cried,
"'Tis this mad filly's choice."

With sudden bound, beyond the boy,
See! see that face of hope and joy,
That regal front! those cheeks aglow!
Thou needed'st but the crescent sheen,
A quiver'd Dian to have been,

Thou lovely child of old Du Clos !

Dark as a dream Lord Julian stood,
Swift as a dream, from forth the wood,
Sprang on the plighted Maid!

With fatal aim, and frantic force,
The shaft was hurl'd!-a lifeless corse,
Fair Alice from her vaulting horse,
Lies bleeding on the glade.

THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be?—
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch-tree!

The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone, and the birch in its stead is grown.--
The Knight's bones are dust,

And his good sword rust ;

His soul is with the saints, I trust.

HYMN TO THE EARTH.

HEXAMETERS.

EARTII! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the

mother,

Hail O Goddess, thrice hail! Blest be thou! and, blessing, I hymn thee!

Forth, ye sweet sounds! from my harp, and my voice shall float on your surges

Soar thou aloft, O my soul! and bear up my song on thy pinions.

Travelling the vale with mine eyes-green meadows and lake, with green island,

Dark in its basin of rock, and the bare stream flowing in bright

ness,

Thrilled with thy beauty and love in the wooded slope of the mountain,

Here, great mother, I lie, thy child, with his head on thy bosom ! Playful the spirits of noon, that rushing soft through thy tresses, Green-haired goddess! refresh me; and hark! as they hurry or linger,

Fill the

pause of my harp, or sustain it with musical murmurs. Into my being thou murmurest joy, and tenderest sadness Shedd'st thou, like dew, on my heart, till the joy and the heavenly sadness

Pour themselves forth from my heart in tears, and the hymn of

thanksgiving.

Earth! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the

mother,

Sister thou of the stars, and beloved by the sun, the rejoicer! Guardian and friend of the moon, O Earth, whom the comets

forget not,

Yea, in the measureless distance wheel round and again they behold thee!

Fadeless and young (and what if the latest birth of creation?) Bride and consort of Heaven, that looks down upon thee enamored!

Say, mysterious Earth! O say, great mother and goddess,

Was it not well with thee then, when first thy lap was ungirdled,

Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he wooed thee and won thee!

Fair was thy blush, the fairest and first of the blushes of morn

ing!

Deep was the shudder, O Earth! the throe of thy self-retention: Inly thou strovest to flee, and didst seek thyself at thy centre! Mightier far was the joy of thy sudden resilience; and forthwith Myriad myriads of lives teemed forth from the mighty embrace

ment.

Thousand-fold tribes of dwellers, impelled by thousand-fold instincts,

Filled, as a dream, the wide waters; the rivers sang on their channels;

Laughed on their shores the hoarse seas; the yearning ocean swelled upward ;

Young life lowed through the meadows, the woods, and the echo ing mountains,

Wandered bleating in valleys, and warbled on blossoming branches.

WRITTEN DURING A TEMPORARY BLINDNESS, IN THE YEAR 1799.

O, WHAT a life is the eye! what a strange and inscrutable essence!

Him, that is utterly blind, nor glimpses the fire that warms him,
Him that never beheld the swelling breast of his mother;
Him that smiled in his gladness as a babe that smiles in its slum

ber;

Even for him it exists! It moves and stirs in its prison!

Lives with a separate life: and-" Is it a spirit?" he murmurs:

'Sure, it has thoughts of its own, and to see is only a language!"

MAHOMET.

UTTER the song, O my soul! the flight and return of Mohammed, Prophet and priest, who scatter'd abroad both evil and blessing, Huge wasteful empires founded and hallow'd slow persecution, Soul-withering, but crush'd the blasphemous rites of the Pagan And idolatrous Christians.-For veiling the Gospel of Jesus, They, the best corrupting, had made it worse than the vilest.